


Decider

by Alexandria356



Series: The Game [3]
Category: Lost
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexandria356/pseuds/Alexandria356
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hero, doctor, torturer, rapist. Helluva resume you got there."</p><p>Sequel to The Game and Rematch, and last in the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decider

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Whatever The Case May Be.

"Jack?"

He turns and sees Hurley's expression wavering between determined and nervous.

"Yes, Hurley?"

"I think I got an infection. Have you any medicine for that?"

"Well, it depends on the kind of infection. Can I see it?"

"What?"

"The infection. It might be something else, and I have to know what it is so I know the right medicine to give you."

"Uh ... " Hurley squirms. "It's personal. Can't you just give me the medicine? Some antibiotics would clear it right up."

"Hurley, the wrong medicine would be bad for you. I need to know what I'm treating. We can go somewhere private and you can show me."

"It's ok, I'll show you here."

Hurley lifts the hem of his shorts and after some searching reveals a red patch on his thigh, about the size of his fingernail.

"You don't need antibiotics for that. I'll clean it and put on some antiseptic ointment for you."

"Can't you just give me antibiotics?"

"No. I can't. Hurley, what do you want antibiotics for?"

Hurley looks around him, squints up into the sky, stares down at his own feet.

"Okay, they're not for me, they're for Sawyer."

"Sawyer's already getting antibiotics."

"Dude, Sawyer says the pills you're giving him aren't working. He thinks they're just, like, aspirin or something."

"What? Why the hell would he think that?"

Hurley takes a step back, and Jack tries for a more neutral expression.

"I don't know, he said you told him if he didn't get antibiotics he'd get itchy red marks on his arm, and now he's got that, so he thinks you're giving him the wrong pills."

"If he's got new symptoms he's got a new illness, because he's getting antibiotics for his arm, and I'll go and damn well tell him so."

Through his anger he is aware of Hurley's anxious presence shadowing him as he sets off towards Sawyer's tent, and he walks too fast for him to keep up, not wanting an audience for this conversation.

Pulling back the tarp of Sawyer's tent without a word, knowing it's provocative, and really quite okay with that, he finds Sawyer on his side on his blanket, arms around himself, with a stiffness that suggests he's not asleep. Sawyer's eyes open, scowling, when the sunlight hits his face.

"What the fuck?"

"Why are you telling people I'm giving you the wrong pills? I'm giving you antibiotics. They're the right pills."

"So it's a coincidence that after you tell me what'll happen if you stop givin' me them pills, I get the exact same symptoms you told me about."

"Yes. It is. Hurley says your arms are red and itchy. Let me see."

"I ain't lettin' you nothin'."

Now that his eyes are acclimating to the gloom he can see that Sawyer is shivering, in the island heat. He has his shirt buttoned up but there are blotches visible on his neck. A rash and a temperature might be an allergic reaction. There are so many plants and insects here that he could be allergic to. He pulls at the collar of Sawyer's shirt, trying to see how far the rash extends, but it's too tight to see much, and Sawyer does nothing to help.

"Sawyer, take off your shirt."

"Why, you wanna quickie? 'Cause I just ain't in the mood."

A shadow falls across them and Jack looks over his shoulder.

Hurley is standing there, red faced and out of breath, with Jack's backpack dangling from his hand. He looks mortified.

"Sawyer, take it off."

"We gettin' into threeways now? Don't look to me like Lardo's too keen."

Jack looks at Hurley's face. He's embarrassed, but no more than he always is in difficult situations. He thinks Sawyer's just being an ass, and having to maintain some standards of professionalism and impersonality in front of Hurley is probably a good thing.

"If you get a severe allergic reaction you could go into anaphylactic shock. If it's something else, I need to know so I can give you the right treatment for it. Let me look at you, Sawyer."

Sawyer scowls and makes a big production of stripping off his shirt. He has a number of red blotches on his arms and torso like the one on his neck. The knife wound in his arm is healing, and not infected. Jack puts his hand on his forehead, takes his pulse from his wrist. An allergic reaction is the likeliest possibility, which is good, as long as he's treated soon. They have a decent supply of antihistamines, so if they go to work fast he'll be ok. If it progresses to anaphylactic shock they have no epinephrine and that's bad.

"Throw me my backpack, Hurley."

He takes out the antihistamines and a bottle of water, and offers a pill to Sawyer.

"What's this? You gonna start givin' me real meds now 'cause Muttonchops went all mother hen?"

"You've been getting real medicine all along. I told you if you stopped getting antibiotics your arm would get itchy and red ... "

"An' look what happened." Sawyer lifts his arms to show the red rash.

"One arm, the injured one. This rash is all over your body, nothing to do with the knife wound. It's probably an allergy. Take this pill, you'll be feeling better within the hour."

"I took your fucking pills and I got sick."

Sick or not, he has to fight to control the desire to hit Sawyer. He tries to think of the situation in purely clinical terms.

"The pills didn't make you sick. The knife wound is healing. You have to take this."

"I don't have to take nothin' from you."

The stare that Sawyer gives him says he's talking about more than pills. Anger and frustration roil inside him. Sawyer takes no responsibility for anything that happens to him. He takes no responsibility at all. He's convinced he's a victim here, and doesn't see that the only one he's harming is himself.

"Fine," he says. "You know what? Don't take it."

He picks up his backpack, pills and water, and walks away.

Though he knows he has done his best for Sawyer, and isn't responsible for whether he accepts his help or not, all day there's something eating at him that he cant quite ignore. He refuses to acknowledge it, but when he lies down in his tent he's unable to sleep. They've tied Sawyer to the tree again, he's kneeling, legs apart, the muscles of his thighs straining, sweat dripping down his face, his mouth is open and lips wet and swollen, as the rope around his neck tightens. Jack looks down at him, watching him beg, promise to do anything. He's so hard, and when he leans forward a little Sawyer's lips will be around him. He unzips his jeans and frees his erection, stroking a couple of times before he steadies himself to push into Sawyer's waiting mouth. He moans, and wakes, on the cold ground, still hard in the grip of his hand. He forces his hands to his sides and breathes shallow breaths until he is in control.

Hating himself and hating Sawyer, he gets up and makes for Sawyer's tent. 

Sawyer is awake, sitting on the airplane chair outside his tent; although it's dark, it's clear that his condition has deteriorated. His breathing is harsh and effortful; the allergic reaction has obviously taken hold, and he's sweating even in the cooler night air.

Jack hauls open his backpack and takes out the pills and water. Sawyer is too sick to look surprised by his arrival, but he shakes his head at the offered pills.

"If your airway closes up it'll make the way you feel now seem like a walk in the park."

He dumps the backpack, holds the pill in front of his eyes.

"Open up."

Sawyer looks up at his face with deliberate obstinacy.

"No."

He turns to go, and then swings round and backhands Sawyer in the face, shoves the pill into his open mouth and follows it with water. Sawyer chokes and coughs up some of the water, but the pill has been washed down. He staggers to his feet, and Jack steps back, thinking he's going to throw a punch, but he doesn't; he can barely stand. He catches a handful of Jack's shirt and hangs on.

The exertion makes him gasp for air, and he's panicking. That will only make it harder to breathe.

Jack puts a steadying hand on his waist.

"Relax. You can breathe, just slow it down."

Sawyer gives him a panting, wild-eyed look of disbelief.

"You can."

Sawyer falls to his knees in the sand, chest heaving, skin damp and flushed, his mouth open as he struggles to breathe. He looked like this in the dream, and it awakens Jack's arousal and his self-loathing. He is not the person Sawyer made him be in the dream, he can choose who he is. Jack kneels down beside him, rubs his back and explains calmly how antihistamines work, how the reaction is subsiding already though he can't feel it yet, until his breathing begins to slow and his face loses its tension. Eventually Sawyer closes his eyes, throws his head back and takes a long breath in and out. 

Jack fishes a water bottle from his backpack with his free hand and holds it out to Sawyer. Sawyer takes a long drink, and pours the rest over his head, soaking himself and sending droplets of water over Jack. He shakes his head like a dog, and turns to look at Jack, an uncomplicated smile breaking out on his face. It's the exhilaration of having survived, and feeling well again; Jack feels almost as good himself. It's a life saved to balance against those who have been, and will be, lost.

He realizes he's sitting in the dark beside Sawyer, smiling. He squeezes Sawyer's shoulder.

"You'll be fine now. I'm going to get back and try to catch up on some sleep."

The smile on Sawyer's face falters and he turns his head to hide it, but the muscles are tense under Jack's hand. 

"Sawyer." He waits but Sawyer doesn't turn or reply. "Are you okay?"

"Never better."

His voice is flat; he's trying not to give anything away. He must have been afraid, out here, alone, thinking maybe he was going to die like that, friendless and despised.

"Lie down, get some rest. I won't go till you're asleep."

He gets to his feet and holds out his hand to Sawyer.

"Come on, you need to lie down."

Within the flimsy walls of the tent the air feels warmer and more humid than it did outside. Lying on his back, arm draped over his forehead, Sawyer has closed his eyes but he doesn't look relaxed. From the few steps it took him to walk in here, his breathing is faster than it was. 

Jack looks around the gloomy tent strewn with Sawyer's clothes, books and acquired paraphernalia.

"You don't have something to wear that'd be cooler than those jeans?"

Sawyer opens his eyes and, keeping them trained on Jack, he unzips his jeans, and eases them down till they're at his ankles, and kicks them off. Jack looks away.

"If you are having difficulty breathing, or the rash comes back, wake me."

He lies down beside Sawyer, careful to avoid any contact with him, and falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep as soon as his head touches the floor.

When he wakes again it's getting light, and Sawyer's hand is stroking the front of his jeans.

"Sawyer, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Guy sleeps in his clothes all night on the floor, got to be lookin' for some thanks."

Sawyer slides Jack's zipper down, which is a relief, and then Sawyer's hand is warm, and his fingers deft. Jack arches into his touch before he remembers himself and stops. Sawyer smiles, sits up and slides over to straddle Jack's thighs, pushing away denim and cotton, watching for his reaction. Sawyer is naked and Jack is repulsed, by his own response as much as Sawyer's actions; rather than this he'd prefer to be feeling his fist smash into Sawyer's face, again and again. He remembers how good it felt, sees it in his imagination, happening not just twice but over and over. His blows are falling in a rhythm that matches that of Sawyer's hand on him. Sitting up, he shoves at Sawyer's chest, tipping him onto his back, thighs spread wide, sprawling, defenseless, and Jack thinks of hurting him, without using his fists.

Sawyer eyes him, calculating. He twists and rummages in a suitcase by his bed. When he turns back he's holding out a tube of lubricant.

Jack shakes his head. He can't do this. He must not do this.

"I know ya want me. I'm here. You do the math."

"I don't want you." 

"Seems like I heard that before. An' you were lyin' then, too." He tries to push the little tube into his hand.

Furious, he seizes Sawyer's forearm and throws him onto his back, arm pinned above his head. He searches Sawyer's face, expecting, hoping, for fear, but Sawyer looks pleased. Fine. He moves his hips and finds that, with Sawyer's thighs splayed over his, he'll only have to move a little to be able to fuck him like this, and see the look on his face change. Refusing Sawyer the chance to reconsider, he holds his arm hard to the floor and uses his free hand to steady himself and push into Sawyer's tight, unreceptive body. Without lubricant or Sawyer's active participation it's difficult, but he chooses to experience the intense friction as pleasure.

"Wait. Stop."

Sawyer pushes at Jack with his free hand but he catches it and holds it to the ground with the other. Leaning over him further makes the angle better and Jack puts it to good use.

"It fucking hurts." Sawyer says, staring till their eyes meet.

Good, you deserve it. Good, I want it to hurt, it's supposed to.

He doesn't say it, but he can see Sawyer reading it in his face.

"Hero, doctor, torturer, rapist. Helluva resume you got there."

He has no qualms about the torture. A sick woman needed medication, no question it was the right thing, but this is for himself. He stops moving, lodged inside Sawyer who takes a deep breath like he's been held underwater.

"I ain't sayin' no," Sawyer says, "Just use the fucking lube."

Sawyer deserves very little consideration, but he is the better man, and he wants Sawyer to know that. Not trusting him, he grips both of his wrists with one hand so he can stretch over to reach the lubricant. The shift of weight presses him into Sawyer, who curses and struggles underneath him. Jack shows him the tube.

"I was getting this."

He pulls out and Sawyer hisses. Jack applies the gel to himself, its coolness a welcome salve. He tries pushing in again, but Sawyer's skin is inflamed, the muscle slightly swollen and a sound escapes Sawyer's lips, despite the fact that they're firmly closed. It stops him. 

"Put some on me." Sawyer says.

He hates taking direction from Sawyer but he squeezes the stuff onto his fingers and touches them to Sawyer's reddened flesh. Sawyer flinches and holds himself tense, prepared to endure it. His face is turned away but Jack can see his whitened lips, the tightness round his eyes. The sight evokes a visceral memory of groping around inside his arm trying to pinch the torn artery, with Sawyer's life bleeding out through his fingers. His excitement wanes, but with it, so does his anger. He remembers how much Sawyer hates owing him his life. 

Jack traces circles, cautiously, as Sawyer trembles with tension. He brushes his fingertips over the tight muscle, and Sawyer winces, but he applies more lubricant and it eases enough to admit his probing finger. He doesn't press the advantage, just rocks his finger slowly until he hears Sawyer's breathing quicken. He withdraws and puts more lubricant on, and this time he can feel Sawyer's body welcoming the intrusion, but he does nothing more than thrust his finger deeper, keeping the motion gentle. 

"Enough already." Sawyer lets his thighs fall wider.

He pulls his finger out and then, though Sawyer's breathing is ragged, his chest flushed with arousal, he adds more lubricant and this time pushes two of his fingers into him. Sawyer's hips jerk convulsively, and he stops, but a look at Sawyer's face reassures him; he's panting, and his eyes are dark under heavy lids. He finds he can cause more writhing as well as gasps and whimpers depending on how he twists and flexes his fingers, how he angles them when he pushes them in. If it's hurting him then the pleasure is greater than that; he is more undone by this than he has ever been from pain or fear, and the feeling of power is far sweeter. He wonders, if he pushes more fingers into him, whether that will give him still more pleasure, or if it will shift the balance from pleasure to pain. Maybe they would be equally intense. Impelled to know how that will look, and sound, and feel, he pulls his fingers out of Sawyer in preparation. Sawyer gives a keening moan at the loss. That sound beats anything he could make from pain, or even pain and pleasure mixed.

"C'mon." Sawyer's fingers encircle his forearm, stroking restlessly.

He's so given over to it he's lost all distrust; Jack has become nothing but a source of pleasure for him. There isn't anything Sawyer wants right now that he isn't capable of giving to him. For a moment it makes him feel transcendent, godlike. 

He squeezes more lubricant onto his palm and applies it to himself. Sawyer, watching him through half closed eyes, gives a purring growl. He rearranges Sawyer to find the right angle and Sawyer arches his back in anticipation, opening to him without reservation. He drives forward, far into the clenching welcome of Sawyer's body, and Sawyer comes, hard. While his body is still racked with ecstasy Jack thrusts into him, every second an exquisite pleasure, better than anything in his life. He moves recklessly, feeling like he's never been this deep inside anybody, never been allowed this unequivocal admittance. Digging his heels into the sand Sawyer shoves himself up to meet him, and Jack clutches his flanks, crushing their bodies together, turning himself inside out as he empties himself into Sawyer. 

His vision fades, and he falls half on top of Sawyer, who moves easily to accommodate him. It's perfect, a state he wants to float in forever. 

Too soon, his mind clears and reality intrudes. He rolls away from Sawyer and lies on his back. Instead of surreal, this is beginning to feel familiar. It's not an anomalous experience he had once or twice in exceptional circumstances, but something he does. Sawyer turns to look at him, and his face is devoid of anger, cunning or even that polished charm. He hadn't thought Sawyer capable of such openness, and it's disturbing to feel it provoke in him a desire to respond in kind, to let down the barriers that keep him defended against the weaknesses he has inside.

"I can't do this again."

Sawyer looks stunned.

"You sayin' you didn't like it? 'Cause I was there, and you liked it."

"I'm not saying that." He stops looking at Sawyer, which makes it easier. "It's just ... not what I should be doing."

"An' what's that? You ain't never gonna fix everything, even if you try 24/7. What's wrong with some relaxing once in a while?"

The yearning to relent, to make Sawyer happy, maybe even make himself happy, is almost more than he can withstand. He's never been intimate with anyone whose expectations were so low, but he knows first hand where self indulgence and weakness of character can lead.

Sawyer trails his fingertips across his hip, and it makes him shiver. He has to be strong, has to resist temptation. He has to do the right thing.

"We'd make better allies than enemies." Sawyer's thumb draws circles on the jut of his pelvic bone. "Spend more time fuckin', less time fightin'."

He can't help imagining it. Sawyer as a friend, and, when there's time, a lover, one he doesn't have to look out for, or be careful with. One who'd have his back. 

Sawyer's fingers are making his skin tingle, and, though he can scarcely believe it, he feels the faint stir of reawakening desire. Sawyer rolls onto his side so he's pressed against him, a warm, solid weight, and splays his hand across his belly. Two of the nail-beds on that hand are bruised.

"It don't have to be all sweat an' toil, everyone deserves some fun, even you, hero." He tilts his head as he says it, a strand of fair hair falling over his face.

He looks into green eyes, and Sawyer smiles. How many life-altering decisions, profound changes of heart have been inspired by that smile? How long before someone dies because Jack has been enticed into pleasure when he should have been striving to keep people alive? His next move is the one that takes him over the cliff edge, or pulls him back to safety. 

He pushes Sawyer's hand away and sits up, fishes for his jeans, starts to pull them on.

"That's it?" He can tell by Sawyer's voice he's not going to take this well, but his mind is made up.

"Yes, Sawyer, that's it." He searches around for his shoes.

Sawyer rolls onto his back, stretches, limber and graceful, and props himself on his elbows. Even recognizing it for the manipulative act it is, he's not unmoved, but neither is he going to do anything just because he wants to. He has to stay focused, and leave no room for doubt.

"I need to get back to the camp." He stands up.

"You know, Doc, it ends like this, we ain't never gonna be friends."

He concentrates on the implied threat, and that helps him harden his heart against what he sees in Sawyer's face.

"That's your call."

He takes out the pack of antihistamines and puts them down beside Sawyer, when he makes no move to take them from his outstretched hand. 

"If you ever feel like that again, take one, as soon as you can."

From the blank look Sawyer gives him, he realizes he has no idea what he's talking about. After a moment's thought, he takes out the bottle of antibiotics as well, and puts it beside the other meds.

"Antibiotics, the rest of your course. I have always given you the right treatment."

"Matter of opinion."

Sawyer's face is shuttered and cold. There is no way to make him okay with this, and perhaps it's best not to try. If Sawyer is angry and resentful, if Sawyer hates him, it will be safer, though not easier, than if he is all knowing eyes and welcoming smiles. A weight settles within him at the thought of that. It's a practical decision, one of the many hard choices he's had to make to keep himself on the right track, but Sawyer will never understand that. He'll take it personally; a rejection, betrayal even, one that's going to give strength to the undercurrent of animosity between them and destroy any chance of trust. All his future dealings with Sawyer will be laden with the emotional legacy of this, because Sawyer won't forgive or forget; he accepts the responsibility, it was his decision. He chose his own fate.


End file.
